John Watson and the Wizarding World
by Natalie River
Summary: John walks in on Sherlock and a boggart, and everything goes down hill from there. Moriarty is back. Harry struggles to run the Order and care for his Godson Teddy. Neville, a leading Herbologist and Hogwarts professor works with Snape grudgingly, and the Wizarding World fears that Moriarty will be a second Voldemort. Crossover. Potterlock. Neville/Molly. Mystrade.
1. The Boggart

_**Author's Note: Warning for talk of suicide, a little swearing, drug use and dark and violent imagery. I don't own any of it. It's a Harry Potter/Sherlock crossover, I own the BBC.**_

_**No, I don't own the BBC. I live in Britain though, which is quite close. I did have the idea though. I thought hrm what would Sherlock's boggart be. And I also realised that Sherlock and the Golden Trio wouldn't be that far apart in age if he's meant to be mid thirties 2012 and Hermione would have been thirty two then. So I played with the ages a bit.**_

_**Yup you heard me right, Hermione's thirty four this year guys. She's the same age as Dean Winchester. You heard me guys...**_

_**Oh and hope you enjoy the story! Please read and review!**_

SHSHSH

John Watson didn't know what was going on, but he'd entered the flat to find it in complete silence. Yet Sherlock's coat was on the sofa, one shoe was by the microwave on the floor and the other was in the bathtub. Sherlock's phone was on the kitchen table and yet Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

John had perfected his "not-as-good-as-Sherlock-but-quite-good" scan. He quite rightly deduced that Sherlock was in his bedroom. But during the day, and so quiet. Usually he'd lay without talking on the sofa, or be bouncing off the walls bored. Or...or something.

It wasn't right. The silence. The closed door. The Sherlock's actually using his bedroom for once instead of cluttering up the rest of the flat.

"Sherlock!" he called, pausing in the hallway. He rapped on the door thrice. "Sherlock, are you ok?"

There was something wedged beneath the door, the lock settled. As a whimper writhed its way from the locked room a terrible fear spread through John. Taking a step back he threw himself against the door.

SHSHSH

When Sherlock was seven Mycroft found a Boggart in a dusty cupboard in a dustier room in the old Holmes' house. Mycroft wasn't meant to do magic outside of school and Sherlock knew this very well. What he did wasn't exactly accidental magic, not anymore, but Mummy and Daddy thought it was and so Sherlock didn't get punished for his 'acts'.

Like the time he turned Mycroft's cream doughnut into a slug. Sherlock had mastered wandless magic before he'd even owned a wand. Mycroft knew of course, but couldn't ever quite proove it.

It was the summer holidays and so Mummy was at home, she taught at some French school of witchcraft and wizardry the rest of the year. Daddy was a muggle, he drove trains. Mycroft had been quite pleased when he found out he was a wizard, he thought it might explain his intellect.

He'd always been cleverer than other children, even more so than Sherlock, whom both had thought was slow till they actually met other kids. Mummy had always been magical, but she had sat Mycroft down at eight and explained that she was different and that he was too.

But no one at Hogwarts was as clever as him either. Mycroft was still just as different. But at least within the walls of Ravenclaw tower he was at home amongst like minded individuals. He knew he'd have been better off with Slytherin, but it was the one time he let his heart control his head. Mummy was a Muggleborn and Daddy was a Muggle, the racial discriminiation would be too much of a hiderance for even him to bear.

Sherlock had begged and begged Mycroft to let him see the foul creature. Mycroft had refused to tell him what the creature had turned into when he'd seen it. Sherlock had pulled on Mycroft's sleeves and eventually Mycroft had given in, delaying his quest (to take the creature to Mummy to deal with), and opening the chest that he'd trapped it in.

The Boggart took Myc's form. In his Hogwarts' robes, waving goodbye, then sneering, insulting him, laughing at him. It leered at him from a great height, it made fun of Sherlock's hair, of Sherlock's grades, a torrent of abuse from names the local children called him, to insults he'd come up with himself in the past.

"You are nothing little brother, but a freak."

There's a reason why Irene Adler, the brightest witch in her year, called Mycroft the Iceman. He tries to be a good brother, he really does. He cares, despite it being a terribly weakness. But to this day, while he understands how hurtful its words were, he doesn't understand why it became him.

SHSHSH

When Sherlock was sixteen, it took Irene Adler's form.

It was during the Second Wizarding War. Sherlock knew there were many many more things he should be afraid of. The world was ending. Nothing would be the same. Sirius Black was on the loose. Obviously Sirius Black was innocent, more like Peter Pettigrew did it, he of whom was still alive. Sherlock had gone to Dumbledore about it only to be told no one would believe him.

He'd corned Fred and George, asked to borrow their map, only to be told the idiots had given it to Harry Potter of all people. Harry Potter who'd told him where to go.

Sherlock wasn't sure why Harry didn't like him. After all, they were both in Gryffindor by choice and no other reason. The Hat had offered him Slytherin and he'd argued against it. Then it had offered Ravenclaw, but like hell was he going to be in the same house as his brother, even if said brother was leaving the next year to join the Ministry. Then the house had suggested Gryffindor. Apparently any house would suit him, a fact that he made sure to let Mycroft know about.

No one really liked Sherlock in Gryffindor. Lestrade didn't mind him, but that was only because he hadn't outed him and Mycroft like he'd let everyone know about Penelope and Percy (the fingernails, does no one look at the fingernails?). Hermione Granger, an annoying third year that Sherlock got on with quite well, was obviously in love with the youngest male Weasley (Sherlock had deleted his name).

Personally Sherlock quite liked Harry Potter. His arrival at Hogwarts brought interest and excitement, after all, before him all there was was guessing what horrible fate a DADA teacher was going to suffer. Sherlock didn't like divination, he'd taken it and then quit it, rather like the Granger girl did (they'd had a rant about the idiocy of the subject together one rainy afternoon).

Potter didn't like being told he was wrong, Sherlock had supposed. But not many people did. In his first year Sherlock had helpfully pointed out that there was something suspicious about Quirrrell but no one other than Potter had listened. In their second year Sherlock had almost taken Potter under his wing, for he too knew what it was like to be feared and hated. Unfortunately Sherlock had been in the library with Granger when she'd discovered what the creature was, only for them both to get petrified- he'd suggested taking it in turns to go around corners using a mirror, he'd been petrified first, then she had looked as well.

Of course he'd known all along Malfoy wasn't involved, and Granger had believed him, but if you tried telling that to stubborn Potter. Mycroft had told him to stay out of trouble. Sherlock disliked Percy Weasley more than Mycroft though and pitied the other Weasley's terribly for having such a creature as a brother, he'd been such a hinderance.

Potter didn't like him though, and he didn't really like Potter. But they had a love hate relationship and that was enough.

Sherlock knew he should have feared very different things therefore when he faced that Boggart in his DADA class (the teacher whom obviously was a werewolf). Voldemort was returning, he just knew it. But no one believed him.

But the Boggart became Irene Adler, a year older than him, Slytherin. Muggle born too actually, odd that.

It had been embarassing. She'd been naked. Remus Lupin hadn't quite known what to do.

But it had been an experience. He'd spoken to Mycroft via a two way mirror shortly after that. Mycroft hadn't been terribly sympathetic.

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

SHSHSH

In his last year at Hogwarts Dolores Umbridge took over the school. It had been a terrible terrible time. He still had the scars.

The Battle of the Ministry hadn't been very good.

Dumbledore's Army had been a stupid idea. He'd warned Potter to be careful with the Room of Requirement. He'd begged him, but Potter had letten his anger drive him. He was angry at Sherlock for insulting one of the Gryffindor boys, angry over such a silly childish thing. Angry about Sherlock's comment the previous year ("What does it matter about Diggory? Potter's fine, that's all anyone cares about around here isn't it?"). He hadn't had Granger to back him up ("Krum only wants a shag. But you can do so much better than Weasley. I'd go with Longbottom or Potter if I were you,").

Potter was angry about his comments on Sirius Black. It was true Black was only treating Potter the way he was because he saw James Potter in him. James Potter had been a bully. Potter didn't like being told that sometimes you should let the adults do things, sometimes you should trust and listen and not be Dumbledore's child-soldier.

Potter didn't like being told about Horcruxes.

The Battle of the Ministry had been terrible. Sherlock was glad for once that Mycroft had been there. But it was the first time he'd had blood on his hands. A fifth year Ravenclaw girl had once told him that one day they'd be standing over a body he'd put there, and she'd been right.

Sirius Black had died that night, but so had Luna Lovegood. Potter might blame himself for Black's death, it wasn't truly his fault, everyone knew that. But Sherlock's arrogance killed Luna. And he realised, as he held her broken body, that she nothing more than a child.

He had liked her, honestly liked her, she was completely insane. At least in his eyes, for sanity was objective. But she was one of the genuine few people he had ever met worth liking.

He was barely able to look at her father at the funeral. How could words ever express how sorry he was?

He happened upon the Boggart quite by accident. He could have easily rid the world of its twisted presence. But he didn't. Because it became a beautiful blonde girl, who smiled at him sadly. He feared it because it made him feel pain, a pain he'd taught himself not to feel. He kept the Boggart for nearly a year.

SHSHSH

He left Hogwarts. Joined the Order of the Phoenix, though most of them didn't want him on it and Mycroft certainly didn't. Mycroft had joined at sixteen, yet he thought Sherlock was too young at almost eighteen. Lestrade also didn't improve of Sherlock's involvement, Snape didn't trust him and Potter objected that he wasn't allowed to join.

But Dumbledore liked him. Sherlock was a weapon. Barely an adult, but a useful weapon. And even Sherlock knew they had to do everything they could to defeat the Dark Lord.

His Boggart became his own death for a few months.

He warned them about the Dementors. Dumbledore already knew, of course he did. He would.

When Dumbledore died he dedicated himself to hunting down the Horcruxes, if he worked out where one was he'd get a message through to the trio. He'd tried to convince the rest of the Order that Snape was still on their side, but no one believed him apart from Potter. Grudgingly the others did follow his logic.

"Why would Albus beg? Albus never begs. And Snape could do so much worse...no he stays at Hogwarts to protect them."

He became a freedom fighter for the Order. Tortured a few times. His Mother was kidnapped and killed for his and Mycroft's actions. He didn't know what suffering she had endured in that time, he didn't want to.

He held so many wounded in his arms as they died. He almost died many times himself. There were arguments. Longbottom and he argued often, Longbottom was making a scene at Hogwarts but Sherlock thought that they should focus their attention elsewhere.

He saved the life of Severus Snape, despite the fact that Snape would have gladly died, and was one of the few that Sherlock wouldn't have minded allowing to die. His love for Lily didn't justify his actions in Sherlock's eyes, but Sherlock knew to choose who lived and who died was monstrous. Even he knew that.

At the Final Battle, the Great Battle of Hogwarts, he had fought side by side with his brother. It had been in late January, the snow still on the mountains, when Potter escaped from Malfoy Mannor, stole a dragon and finally returned to Hogwarts. When Sherlock had arrived at Hogwarts ready to fight he'd only had a few words to say to him, "drama queen".

When they called out Potter was dead all hope left him and he fell to his knees as many others did. But Mycroft had held him tight, and whispered one word in his ear.

"Horcrux."

Caring about the dead doesn't bring them back, caring about the dead won't save the living. Truly Sherlock had thought Potter dead, and a pain filled his heart. But still he fought. He called out to Granger and Weasley, and they fought. For Harry. For Dumbledore. For all those who died.

He had seen children die, he had seen adults die, all alike. Torn apart or cursed. It scarred him.

They fought to survive.

His shield protected the Weasley girl and Granger but he didn't have time to raise his own before Lestrange's curse hit him. That was the moment Molly Weasley saved his life.

He'd duelled Voldemort himself. Just to give the Longbottom by enough time to get to the snake, as soon as he'd seen the hat he'd known. Greyback chose Sherlock to sink his teeth into and Mycroft had gotten in the way.

But despair couldn't take Sherlock because then he saw Potter, and he knew he wasn't dead. He knew.

It had all ended well in the end.

Tom Riddle was dead.

It was over. It was finally over.

"I'd fix that wand of yours, and then promptly lose that one somewhere very safe Potter," he'd murmured, gesturing to the Elderwand.

"Thanks Sherlock," Potter had replied. "But I'm not an idiot."

"You just died," he'd quipped.

"Doesn't make me an idiot."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "No, you are anyway."

SHSHSH

It hurt to remember the war, to remember Voldemort. It hurt to remember the dead. Cocaine became the drug of use. Heroin occasionally.

Mycroft became Minister of Magic shortly after Kingsley's time in office. They really were in modern times when those cursed by a werewolf's bite could actually hold government office.

He came across Potter at St. Mungo's a few times. Once when he'd overdosed Potter came to visit him. When Potter attempted suicide he returned the favour.

His Boggart became the bodies, the war.

He tried to turn his back on magic, it didn't work. But the Wizarding World realised it needed better communication between it and the Muggle World. So aurors started joining the police force to solve crimes on both sides of the fence, so to speak.

If Muggles and Wizards had worked together then Sherlock estimated the war would have been over slightly quicker with less deaths. While modern technology didn't work around magic as well as it should it still did work. The world was progressing and the Wizarding World had to keep up.

Sherlock did find that rather boring though.

His generation had become one of the lost generations.

At Potter's wedding there were empty seats. Each had a name written on them. Lily Potter, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Tonks ("anything else and she'd have killed me!"), Arthur Weasley, Fred Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Albus Dumbledore, Colin Creevey...

"Rather touching, don't you think?" Mycroft had asked.

Sherlock had nodded ever so slightly. Sentiment. Strange thing.

Potter had hugged him tight. "I didn't think you were coming you bastard!" he'd cried.

"I think Ginny would have hexed me if I didn't," he'd replied, a low murmur.

Potter had smiled and Sherlock had managed a genuine smile in return. Ginny Weasley was the best thing that had happened to Potter. As he rolled up his sleeves Sherlock winced at the scars on his wrists, trust Potter to take such a mundane course of action. Such a Muggle thing to do.

Such a human thing to do.

SHSHSH

Hermione Granger called by to see him a few times.

When he'd overdosed the second time.

"We're all a bit screwed in the head Sherlock," she'd sighed.

She'd introduced him to a friend, Molly Hooper, another Muggleborn, a Gryffindor he'd never even noticed (he'd have pegged her as a Hufflepuff). Apparently she'd stayed to help with medi-care during the Battle and had ended up fighting off some Slytherin thugs, having lost her wand she actually managed to thump one of them and take his by force.

Meeting her got him back into "detectiving or whatever it is you do". Of course then he'd found out Lestrade did the occasional Muggle case as well.

It had been interesting. It had been fun.

Then he'd met John Watson.

Another damaged soldier.

SHSHSH

"Ron just doesn't believe in computers! I like your blog though, much better than that Joe Watson's," Granger had commented as she sipped her coffee. "It's ever so interesting, I never knew there were so many types of ash!"

He'd nodded absent-mindedly and found himself correcting her. "It's John. John Watson."

She'd laughed and nodded. "Of course."

Sherlock didn't know why he'd corrected her when usually he let her ramble, but some things were important.

SHSHSH

The door burst open.

Sherlock knelt on the floor, a thin stick held tight between his white clenched knuckles. His lips were shaking.

"Riddikulus!"

John Watson's dead body was convulsing on the floor, and a shadowy figure loomed over it. Flitting in and out of vision.

John almost passed out.

SHSHSH

John Watson did what the British do when they are upset and confused and made a cup of tea. He sat stirring it thoughtfully as he listened to Sherlock's explanations.

It was sad. It was dreadful. Sherlock had been fighting a war when he'd just joined the army. All the strange occurrences in the nineties all made sense now. All the strange things that Sherlock could do, that were beyond real...not deducing, that was scientific, that was real. But like how he could knock something over and yet John never saw it drop. How Mycroft could arrive somewhere but there not be a car in sight, yet he always sent one for John. How Sherlock could get places he shouldn't be able to get to, how he survived the...

"Moriarty was...was trying to be a second Voldemort?"

Sherlock tried not to wince out of habit at the name. "Yes. Sort of. No not really, but if it helps you think of it like that then yes."

"You're a wizard? Mycroft's a werewolf and a wizard?"

"Yes John, I thought we covered this."

John took a long sip of tea. "There's a world full of wizards right beneath us."

"No, around you John. You Muggles you see but you don't observe."

John shook his head. "Mary will never believe this."

"About that, Mary's-"

"Is everyone around me a wizard?"

Sherlock shrugged. With a snap of his fingers he summoned his wand and his violin. "Anderson isn't."

"Wait Molly?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And Greg?"

"Who?" with a frown he picked up his bow.

"Lestrade!"

"Oh yes," Sherlock grinned. "And Mrs. Hudson. Molly's dating some Herbology Professor at Hogwarts now. Apparently they're having quite a lot of sex."

John nodded trying to clear his head. Wizarding World. Voldemort. Harry Potter, boy who lived. So many lost, a war just like his own. But Sherlock had been so young, Harry, god a good few years younger than him.

"And what was that thing?"

Sherlock didn't bother looking up. "It was a Boggart. It shows the thing you fear most. My fear was losing you, and never being able to catch who did it."

"Wow," John ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes," Sherlock smiled. "My patronus also changed around the same time as my Boggart did. It used to be an otter, now it's a hedgehog."

A slinky silvery fox trotted through the door and from it Anthea's voice came.

"Your brother wants to see you. Come at once."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh she knows I prefer to text. Besides, when has he ever asked so politely?"

John shook his head. "I don't-wait is everyone I know a wizard?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Like I said, Anderson isn't. Henry Knight was a squib. Kate, no Kate definitely wasn't. You like the danger of magic John."

With that Sherlock linked arms with John, did a half spin and as John put it "almost killed me". Sherlock would later refer to it as an uncomfortable apparation, which would have been fine had John not been un-co-operative.

SHSHSH

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office and put his head in his hands.

"What is it sir?" Anthea had casual robes on over her skirt suit, Mycroft often wondered why people still wore robes. But they were rather attractive on her.

"A fetching shade of pink dear," he informed her. "John Watson knows about magic. Think of the trouble they got into while Sherlock was hiding it from him. Can you imagine what they'll do get up to now?"

John Watson appeared slightly queasy as he stumbled forwards clutching the desk for support. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"We'll solve crimes together," stated Sherlock.

John nodded. "While he forgets his pants and I blog about it."

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. "Yes Anthea, here we have Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes, on whom both magical and muggle police often depend upon. Forgetting their trousers and blogging about it."


	2. The Mirror of Erised

Sherlock Holmes was fourteen and he was tired.

He was tired of the torment and ridicule, tied of the mundane reality in which he lived. He was tired of being surrounded by idiots. They were all so stupid. There was something very wicked living out in the Forbidden Forest, something that had been killing and drinking unicorn blood for its reviving properties.

He just thought it was all rather tidy that Harry Potter became the boy who lived ten years ago on Halloween night, and then as soon as he turns up at Hogwarts strange and dark things start happening. There weren't that many variables. Quirrel was one of them.

There was something odd about Professor Quirrel, something very odd indeed. Where was he on the night of the feast, when the troll got into the dungeons?

Potter thought it was Snape. But Snape wasn't...he wasn't thick. If he wanted to let a dangerous creature into Hogwarts he'd do it via the front door and he wouldn't get caught and he certainly wouldn't intentionally let it in in the dungeons, where all his precious Slytherins were, and his even more precious potions.

Sherlock couldn't even say that, Snape might have made mistakes, but he was certainly no evil man. Sherlock saw that, when few of his fellow idiot class mates could. He saw part of himself in the professor, and that worried him. Obviously an only child, half-blood according to the records he'd found. Bullied and alone and oh so terribly terribly sad, trauma and bla bla bla. And then he's in too deep, he begs Dumbledore for help, and Dumbledore agrees.

Sherlock had his theories about how it happened. He reckoned Snape had never overheard the prophecy (he'd research it as soon as he'd started Hogwarts and learnt more than just fairy-tales and folklore about the boy who lived). Snape had been listening not on Voldemort's orders but on Dumbledore's, drip feeding the Dark Lord information. And Dumbledore's so sure he can protect them, better Voldemort find out from Snape than find out some other way.

That way it's on their terms not his.

He's so sure he can protect them, both couples, the Longbottoms and the Potters. But of course he couldn't, never could. And Snape becomes the Judas of the Wizarding World. The hated, the betrayer, and remains that way for the rest of his godforsaken life.

Snape was an idiot like the rest of them, a spiteful and bitter man, aged beyond his years. But Christ, if he at fourteen could tell the man would never intentionally harm a child, then surely other doubters could accept that? He supposed Potter wasn't to be expected to be too bright, only eleven and all.

Still, if he can tell from the mudstains on Quirrel's trousers that the man's been spending an unexplainable amount of time in the forest, then surely Dumbledore knows. But why would Quirrel need the blood of a unicorn...

And as he delves deeper into the mystery he finds that Quirrel spent a long time in Albania, where Voldemort was said to have fled to, weakened but not completely destroyed. Sherlock gets told to stop researching, to stop prying and putting his nose were it doesn't belong. But they're so stupid. He goes to Dumbledore and demands he does something, and Dumbledore tells him he is, he's doing all that he can.

Mycroft writes to him and tells him to back down. Some things must play out in certain ways.

He knows at Potter's first Quidditch match that Quirrel tried to kill him. But why...was he working for the Dark Lord? Was he collecting unicorn blood and sending it to him?

He wrote a letter to his brother, he tried to tell a few people, who laughed him off. Why on earth would Quirrel do something like that? _Such a weirdo...you can't just accuse people of being Death Eaters Sherlock. Just because he gave you an A on your last essay. _

He tells Granger he knows she set fire to Snape's robes, that she shouldn't be concentrating on Snape but instead on Quirrel. But each time he tries to warn Potter, something or other stops him. And Dumbledore won't listen.

None of them listen. They never listen.

They call him a freak. He decides it's so much easier just not to care. He tries to keep tabs on Quirrel, who acts innocent and stuttery, but Sherlock knows he knows, and what's worse, Quirrel knows he knows he knows.

He can accurately predict who'll win the next Quidditch world cup, they listen to him then, but they won't listen to him now. He feels betrayed by his brother who refuses to act, stating that Dumbledore has it under control. Even now, years later, Sherlock knows Dumbledore wasn't the white knight everyone thought he was.

On a wide scale, he let the school be infiltrated by dark magic and risked lives almost every year since Potter turned up because he was too obsessed with raising him as a weapon, a sacrificial lamb. On a small scale, he was never there, he never stopped _them. _

"_Come on then freak! You think you're tough. You and me. No wands. No magic. Just fists." _

When he fights he has to hold back, because he knows he could inflict so much damage, the shit he'd be in if he did. When he duels he has to hold back, because he knows that his skill is superior to theirs. And he's so tired of respect and behaving. He's so tired of letting them walk over him.

Then one day, in February of '92 he has enough. He almost kills Bowen Duffield.

"_You think Quirrel's got Voldemort on the back of his head or something? You're the only freak in this school."_

He points out that Duffield's father was a death eater, and he sees Malfoy's eyes narrow, only a first year, but Sherlock doesn't relent.

"_Taking tips on how to harass and bully Malfoy? I would have thought your father gave you enough already."_

"_It's a pity Duffield, that your mother couldn't say no to the Dark Lord and his minions. Says she was under the imperius curse, but seems to me like she was proud to be Voldemort's whore. She still talk to Bellatrix Lestrange?"_

And soon Duffield's attacking him. A curse that almost knocks him flat. He yells something else about pictures of Duffield's mother in a paper soon after the war. Yelling that at least Lestrange was willing to suffer for her twisted ideology, at least accepted the monster she was.

And he knows he shouldn't have said it. Of course not.

They call him names, gay, fag, freak. They screech things about his family. So he retorts. It's not really an insult if it's true. It's not slander if it's true.

But Duffield's attacking him and he really thinks the boy's going to kill him. Sherlock has no excuse to be near the Slytherin dungeons at gone midnight. No excuse the teachers would accept. The Slytherins weren't in their dorms either, but they get away with murder.

Sherlock thinks they really might this time.

It hurts. All the words. All the spells and the feet and the claws. Someone said crucio. He knows someone said crucio. He knows. Fourteen and he knows and it hurts. It hurts so badly.

So he fights. He goes for it and he almost brings a wall down. Peeves is yelling and the Bloody Baron is bellowing. His spell hits Duffield square in the chest. He's sobbing, there's a cut on his forehead and he slamms a fist into the side of Dufffield's head. And another. Sobbing as he attacks an unconscious body.

He didn't know which teacher pulled him off the Slytherin, but somebody did.

Unsurprisingly none of the Slytherins saw anything but Sherlock attack Duffield. Duffield only acted in self defence. Strange that, Sherlock's covered in bruises, he can barely stand himself. He's got a few nasty magical cuts that take Pomfrey ages to heal.

But no one saw anything.

So Sherlock gets nearly a years worth of detentions, and later, when Potter performs a far more serious spell that nearly kills Malfoy, Sherlock notes he only serves detention for the rest of the term. Sherlock gets them till Christmas, and he nearly empties the House Points, only for Potter to fill them back up again. Letters written home and severe yelling ats.

It just makes things worse. So next time he doesn't bother. Duffield's friends corner him and he lets them hit him. Taking their anger out through physical means instead of magical. It hurts less. If he doesn't provoke them and just let their fists talk.

Snape finds him. Snape stops them. Snape's the only bloody one who cares. Mycroft doesn't. Dumbledore doesn't. Since when did he care about pupils? Lets Snape teach doesn't he? Snape who Sherlock learnt was Longbottom's biggest fear, Longbottom who's parents were tortured to the brink of insanity, who's been bullied since he was a toddler by family members and fellow pupils alike. Sherlock finds it disgusting. Snape might not be an angel, but he still fights for them, and Sherlock doesn't think that justifies his behaviour.

Dumbledore doesn't stop them starting rumours about Potter in his second year, claiming that he's the heir of Slytherin when he's obviously not. Doesn't even try. (They called Sherlock the heir of Slytherin for a while, until they realised that was far fetched, even for them). Doesn't bother with sex education or protecting the pupils from mundane and real horrors.

Sherlock can forgive him for Quirrel, and forgive him for turning Potter into a sacrificial lamb. He understands why. The master plan. Let the Dark Lord into the school, hope Potter defeats him. Let an innocent man rot in Azkaban, hope it works out. He can sort of just about understand. The lies. The deceit.

But he can't forgive the little things. The negligence.

It was May '92 when the Golden Trio finally found out about the unicorn blood, and all of a sudden they were looking and researching. He overheard the name Nicholas Flammel and it all started to fit together.

He warned Dumbledore, that whatever he was hiding was going to be found. It was. And suddenly he was believed again. Harry and Hermione and Ron defeated the Dark Lord. Child's play. Odd, thought Sherlock, that it seemed as if the obstacles for keeping the Dark Lord out seemed geared towards the Trio. Towards the four actually.

A herbology challenge for Neville, who didn't go, something Dumbledore hadn't counted on. A hand an eye, challenge, to test Harry's skills of flight. A chess game for Ron. A puzzle for Hermione. Odd how it was challenging, but not that challenging.

He'd brought it up over dinner with Mycroft that summer. Mycroft had told him to keep his mouth shut. That was when Sherlock realised that Dumbledore was building himself an army.

He'd mused that on the last day of term, for rumours of their plight had spread across the whole school. Everyone knew the freak had been right. Apparently Granger was looking for him. Hard to avoid her when he shared the same house as her. Not too hard.

But he was tired. He was so tired.

He came across a hidden room when he was hiding one day. He had long given up attending lessons. He didn't care about graduating. There wasn't any point, because none of it mattered. He didn't want them to hurt him, didn't want another upsetting letter sent to Mummy. There was only one person he had any real desire to talk to and that was Potter, who was bedridden and Pomfrey refused to allow him through the door.

Erised, it said on it, the mirror in the room that he found. He was hiding in particular from a few rather cruel sixthyears that day. He'd realised he was attracted to men, and had discovered that made him gay. And apparently that wasn't a good thing to be.

He was glad he got to go home soon. But he was tired of lying and pretending to be someone he wasn't. Pretending to be stupid and thick and...

The mirror showed him as he was. But on one side of him was Mycroft and his parents, who were so proud, on the other his peers, his friends. He had friends..._no. He didn't. Alone protected him. Alone is what he had. _

"You missed my lesson today," came a familiar snarl from behind him. But it was softened, blunted at the edges slightly, as if the speaker's heart wasn't in it. "Mr. Holmes, I do not think it would be wise to miss it again next year. Do you? That is if you're going to be taking it at NEWT level, then I suggest you try to at least pass your OWL."

"To do it at NEWT I'd need an O," Sherlock had said without turning. The tears in his eyes were blurring his vision. "So a pass wouldn't be enough."

"I'd take you at a Pass over the Weasley twins with an Outstanding Holmes," the potion's professor had smirked. "At least I know you understand the basic skill of potions, even if you refuse to participate in classroom activities and fail to follow simple procedures..."

Sherlock nodded and turned away.

Snape didn't move as Sherlock reached the door, finally he dragged his eyes away from the looking glass. "I wouldn't return to look for the mirror if I were you Holmes. It won't be here, and if it was, just looking at it for too long would drive you mad, it shows you're-"

"Desires, I know, I'm not an idiot."

"I'd beg to differ."

Sherlock managed a slight smile. He glanced back at the potion's master. "What do you see, professor, when you look at it?"

"I see myself..." he began then trailed off, mesmerised. "I see myself surrounded by some of the most precious and difficult to brew potions in the world, all of which I brewed myself."

Sherlock had simply nodded as he left, but as he let the door swing shut he realised that Snape had probably not been quite truthful. Sentimentality and all that. It was very unlikely that he had been truthful in fact. But for once Sherlock left it at that, for, as he supposed, it had been quite a personal question after all.


	3. Wizards, Wheezes and Old Faces

John traced the track marks on the inside of Sherlock's elbows and sighed, his fingers trailing down from the circles that were probably once rosy pink, and down to white raised lines. They were the same on both arms, the points were he'd injected only on his left. Wouldn't risk injecting with his left hand. The drug was always more important.

The risk of going to deep was far lower on Sherlock's priority list than the risk of wasting his precious chemical cures. Because now John knew that sure it had mainly been Muggle drugs, but there were far more dangerous concotions to be created in a potions lab.

But his fingers moved faster now, and he refused to let them dwell on the past. Now he needed to get the glass out off Sherlock's wounds, and make sure that there wasn't anything _else _in them. Like whatever it was that the dreadful man had thrown at Sherlock before Sherlock's spell had knocked him unconscious.

SHSHSH

He had to admit it had been exciting. It had been incredibly exciting. They'd entered this whole other world, through a pub and a hole in the wall. He'd been told to at least _try _not to act too Muggle, and had followed Sherlock along streets wide and far.

Sherlock had given him a foul tasting potion before they left. He'd pocketed a few vials and dropped something in one before giving it a shake and passing it to John.

John had to admit he didn't look quite like John Watson. Instead he sort of looked a bit like David Beckham. He didn't know where Sherlock got a bit of his body from. Apparently the stuff was called polly-something and it changed your appearance. Sherlock had sighed and rolled his eyes and said of course a common potion wouldn't work properly on John Watson. Bloody nuisance that he was.

John had asked if it was safe and Sherlock had wanted to know if John thought he'd really poison him for the sake of a case. John declined to answer. Sherlock explained he'd cooked up his first batch as a teenager in the girls' bathroom on the second floor having (with the help of Hermione Granger) memorised the potion and stolen ingredients. He'd quite enjoyed their little sessions, and he had to admit that it would've gone wrong had she not corrected him on a few occasions. Then she, Weasley and Potter had snuck into the Slytherin dungeons to spy on Malfoy. Sherlock hadn't been able to join them due to an embarrassing and unfortunate ailment that meant he looked like a half feline thing for nearly a week after.

Still John looked _different _enough. And Sherlock was a master of disguise, magical and not. They'd gone into Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and Sherlock had explained it was the first and original one, but now it was a national chain.

Sherlock had shown him a few thinks, rolled his eyes at John's amazement, and refused to allow John to look at anything for more than ten minutes. There were scores of giggling girls, laughing over love potions (John was dubious of their legality, likened them to rohypnol, from his understanding the Dark Lord had been _born _and _borne _because of their misuse, and was promptly reminded that times change and so did limitations. Limitations on power, complex spells cast upon drinking glasses, wines etc.

Nothing more than trinkets now, to enhance a feeling of love, a similar effect to one or two shots of firewhiskey.

"_Some people said it was fascism, like living under Voldemort."_

"_Idiots exist in the wizarding world as well as ours then?"_

They moved away from trinkets and toys towards more plainly labelled shelves.

John picked up a bronze orb, it had strange sigils drawn on it and felt warm in his hand. "What's this?"

"It's a warning device, you used to be able to get one, for one children had nightmares. Weasley developed them for adults after the war," Sherlock picked one up and turned it over in his hand. "You programme it for the person you want, bit of their blood unfortunately needed. But they're useful-"

"That's how you were _always _there when I had nightmares," whispered John. "That's how Mary-"

"Yes John, well done. That's how even when Mary was at her friends, she somehow was there when you had a nightmare. Her orb glowed, she aparated home. I still keep mine ready."

John's eyes widened. "Hang about-how-how did she get my blood?"

"Oh I took extra when I activated mine," he put the orb back down on the shelf. "Need replacing every now and then of course. But handy. Like baby monitors."

"Wait- you took my blood without my permission?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was for a good cause!" he lowered his voice. "And that, is the man we're going to have a chat with."

He pointed out a red haired man, who stood on a walkway between the second floor and the first, watching the children and the teenagers and the parents looking and laughing and enjoying. He met Sherlock's eye, gave a slight not, and turned striding towards a backroom.

Grabbing him by the wrist Sherlock dragged John along the aisles and up a wiry staircase. John could definitely see the stark contrast between this part of the shop and the cheerful colourful part. He'd seen chocolates with names that made them sound like antidepressants, sound quietners in pouches, pain reliefs blocker-outers. Strange devices and contraptions that seemed to be for the ease of physical ailments. Rows of tiny boxes with 72 hours written on them and Sherlock had pulled him on before he could read the rest, on the way Sherlock explained they were something to do with suicide watches and very difficult to make, that St. Mungos brought them from Weasley himself.

A large banner on the wall by the staircase claimed that they had been "Proud Associates of the Fugitive and Unmentionable Harry Potter since 1991".

John had already realised that this wasn't just a joke shop, no matter how hard this Weasley fellow tried to make it seem like it was. There were funny things that made noises and fluffy things that squeaked, potions and toys and magical pranks. But there were things that seemed equivalent to half the stuff he'd been prescribed. Posters in this section advertising support groups and therapies. Sure there weren't many people there, but he could understand why...

What changed a teenage boy, Sherlock had explained that Weasley was a kid when he set the store up, a kid when he'd started making things like puking pasties (or something like that John thought to himself), from making jokes to creating medication for war veterans? A war did.

It had been more than ten years ago. A decade and a bit. He could practically see those who were old enough to remember it and those who weren't. Those who had been babies, those who hadn't. And the fear Moriarty must have caused, when he rose in power, when he exhibited what people saw as...potentially Voldemort. And the relief when he disappeared from the wizarding world, why no one cared when he started tormenting the Muggle world. _At least it's not us...at least it's someone else. _

But even though it was a decade ago, you saw it. Men and women with terrible scars. Half blind wizards and witches. People with canes. People who winced when doors slammed shut. Just walking down Diagon Alley was like walking through a vetrans hospital.

He understood why the name Voldemort struck fear in them. From what Sherlock had told him, from what he'd read, God he understood. The war was still close. Still so painfully close. It's aftermath so rancid and rotting and yet so damn fresh.

He understood how Sherlock's generation, Harry's, (his he supposed) had been a gap group. In between the first Voldemort era and the second. How it got worse. How it got so terribly worse. And how it all ended. It scared him to think that when he was thirteen he was worried about spots and maybe about getting a walkman (yes he was that old that he remembered tapes). When Sherlock was thirteen he was worried because an evil wizard terrorist type who'd been dormant but not dead for ten years was rumoured to be returning.

When he was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, he'd been worried about his exams and girls and stuff. Sherlock had been trying to convince people there was a basilisk on the loose. _"He knew John. He knew it was a basilisk. And he didn't shut the school. He didn't stop it. No one died. But they could have."_

"_When did you realise it was a basilisk Sherlock?"_

"_After the first victim. I researched. I asked Hagrid. I found Myrtle. It was so obvious! And the only explanation I can think of, is that he knew John. They all knew it was a basilisk, but they didn't know how or why and so they had to wait. Couldn't let whoever was doing it know."_

Sherlock was cold. No wonder he was so cold. His entire childhood had been a game of chess. Just like Potter's. Just like Granger's. Just like every child in Dumbledore's training ground. The Ministry got that part right, Dumbledore was raising an army. Just not in the way they thought.

He went to sixthform, completed his A-Levels, decided he was going to medical school. He'd never wanted to be a soldier. It just sort of happened along the way. Same as it had happened to Sherlock.

Sherlock led him up another set of stairs and to a tiny back room, the door was opened by a young man with bright red hair who was clearly the younger brother.

"Who's he?" demanded the younger redhead.

The older man, who now John realised had to be just the same age as Sherlock (though he looked frail and decrepit).

"Dim as ever Weasley," Sherlock greeted him.

The older man chuckled and stood once more from his desk. A tiny broomstick, the size of a matchstick, zoomed about the room making a low buzzing noise. John turned towards Sherlock to find that he had stepped towards the window to watch the street outside.

The room was dark, dusty and damp. It seemed more like a storeroom than an office, filled to the brim with trinkets and toys and things that went bang.

"Sherlock Holmes!" cried the older man. "It's been too long. Hasn't it Ron? Fred will be so disappointed that he's missed you! And you, now you don't look like him but you must be John Watson. Fred and I love your blog."

Sherlock's head turned sharply. He met Ron's eyes.

"When is Potter getting here George?" he asked.

George glanced at a clock, that John noticed didn't tell the time. Instead it had several hands with faces and names on them. There was George's face and Ron's, and a few people John assumed were family such as Percy the Prat, Ginny, as well as a Mum, Bill, Charlie. Then there were a few he assumed were spouses, there was the famous Harry Potter, there was Sherlock's name, frighteningly the name Voldemort written on a hand that had no face.

There were different words written around the clock such as 'home' (Sherlock explained that 'home' wasn't necessarily the same home), 'shop', 'danger' and 'dead'. Thankfully only Voldemort's hand was pointing to dead ("Just to make sure he stays like that.").

"He's on his way according to this old thing, but Mum made it years ago and it's running a bit slow," said George. "I've got a few bits and bobs for you Sherlock, decoy detonators, Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, few useful things I've been developing- handy for your cases. Is there any other stuff you need? No lady in your life yet?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, John knew it was forced. "No."

Before John knew it George had turned on him and soon he had been laden down with all sorts of gifts for Mary from everlasting eyelashes to kissing concoctions and flirting fancies. Then he was being given an expanding bag to put them all in, and by the time Potter got there John was glad of the distraction of a case.

Sherlock had let George rush about the tiny room, pulling things from drawers, experimental products, new design plans. So keen to share and show off. He'd watched bemused at the wonder in John's eyes. He took the opportunity to fold his arms across his chest and take a sidestep closer to the youngest Weasley boy.

"_He's losing it," _Ron had murmured quietly to him. "_Doesn't know what day it is half the time. Thinks Fred's just popped down to the corner shop or something. Sees Fred in the mirror. Talks as if Voldemort's still around. He's doesn't recognise his own children sometimes."_

Sherlock had told John it would be an interesting and exciting case. A fun one. A theft or something. And it had to be interesting, because Sherlock didn't often take thefts that didn't involve murder.

But the look on Harry Potter's face implied that the case Sherlock had been summoned for wouldn't be the one he was solving that day. John felt his stomach drop, and though he didn't understand half

of what Potter was talking about he knew it had to be bad.

SHSHSH

"Sherlock talk to me!" he begged. "Please! Talk to me. We got him. We caught him. You caught him. At least I think you did. What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock groaned and tried to sit up.

John tried to support his back. "He threw something at you," he half cradled the man in his arms. "Help!" he yelled. _Where the hell was Harry? Where the hell were any of them?_

Harry had been right behind them. It had been exactly like every other chase he and Sherlock had ended up on. Sherlock had taken off ahead of them. Then Harry had done a half spin John recognised as apparating or disapparating (or as he called it 'teleporting'). Ron had been with them, Sherlock had said something about aurors- Harry being one, Ron an ex one.

Ron had been casting charms like mad, anti apparation. There was a whole team of aurors in the area. And Sherlock had to run ahead. Of course he did. So John followed. Now he reasoned that taking him on a case in the wizarding world was like taking a plastic spork to a gun fight.

"John...tell them...poison. Spread through b-blood, bodily fluids. St. Mungos. Tell them...contact Hogwarts. Need...need...need Snape. Need...L-longbottom. He developed it himself, it's biowarfare almost."

"Who? Longbottom? Isn't he the Herbology teacher-?"

Even at the brink of unconsciousness Sherlock Holmes was still sarcastic. "Yes John," he gasped. "No of course not. He did-" he tried to gesture towards the man he'd knocked out. Then his eyes widened. "Mustn't touch me John. Could infect you."

John held him. He daren't try to help him, he knew he should have listened. He knew he wouldn't be able to.

Harry was clearing the area, John could see him coming at a run towards them. Yelling about getting healers.

"Be careful!" gushed John as Ron helped him stand. "Don't touch anything! It's infectious!" It was only then that he realised he was bleeding. He had a huge gash across his forehead. No wonder he couldn't see, and he'd thought it was tears that blinded his eyes. "He threw something at Sherlock, apparently it could be airbone. But it's poisonous, like poisonous gas!"

Ron stepped back, John's blood on his hands.

John nodded. "Harry, can you contain this? Put up some barrier thingy of yours or something? If it is airbone then it should be weakened at a distance. But if its not it still needs to be contained. Everyone here could have been poisoned by it already. It spreads through bodily fluids, Sherlock says he-" he gestured to the man, "developed it."

Harry nodded confirmation of his understanding. "Ok. Ok. Great. Good."

Already aurors were moving. John felt his chest start to ache. "He said Snape. Get Snape and get Longbottom."

Harry nodded. "Ok. We need analysts. We need to know if breathing charms or bubble heads will help us, if it is airbone, can it be contained. John did he say if he knew what it was?"

John shook his head. "No," he wheezed. "Just that it was an original creation of his...who...who is..."

Harry was starting to panic. "Justin Steele," he whispered. "But he was never any good at potions or herbology, John? John just sit down slowly. Ok. There are healers here now. It's ok. It's ok."

John lowered himself down as his chest started to cease up, his breath catching in his throat. He watched as Harry staggered forwards.

Harry couldn't make out much of anything anyone was saying. It was all getting terribly dark. Cold. So cold. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock being moved. Of John crying out in memory of a war.

But from the darkness came a voice, and a bright light, followed by a face he didn't recognise for a moment or two due to his mind being so terribly terribly cloudy. For a second he thought it might be an angel. Then he realised it was more likely the devil incarnate.

He opened his eyes. Justin Steele was stood over him, but he knew those eyes, those eyes were not the eyes of a sane man. An auror was holding him back.

"I have a message for Potter!" he cried. "Potter and Holmes. I have to give it."

Harry could barely hear him. He knew Sherlock couldn't. "Wh-what?" he choked out.

"It's from Jim Moriarty," chuckled Steele.

Harry could feel someone charming a stretcher to support his weight. He couldn't see Steele anymore, only hear his voice in every crook and cranny his mind. The way he spoke sounded almost as if it had an Irish twinge. A sing song tone.

"He says, _miss me?_"

In that moment Harry was scared in a way he'd vowed he'd never allow himself to be again, not since his scar twinged for the last time. The only thing that could scare him more, other than his scar starting to burn again, was if Voldemort's hand on George's clock started to move.

But he didn't have long to think about it, because soon he fell into a heavy sleep, one if asked, he would have admitted he doubted he would awake from.


	4. St Mungo's

John had been in a medical isolation once before. It hadn't been a pleasant experience.

His second turn at a medical isolation wasn't fun either, but, with the risk of sounding like his almighty Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't half as boring.

The street had been locked down in less than seven minutes, but they'd feared that that simply wasn't fast enough. Barriers had been put in place, St. Mungo's had been warned about a fluctuation of patients that were about to arrive and needed to be placed immediately into quarantine.

There had been twenty one of them quarantined. Sherlock, Harry, Ron, the other aurors, a young woman who'd been passing and her baby, two little boys who'd been nearby and Steele (though he was kept seperately). They'd no way of knowing how far it could spread, but they reasoned it couldn't have spread that far, and apparently the aurors still aware enough to call for backup had warned them not to enter within the protective charms until Snape, Longbottom and the analysts arrived.

Sherlock, once conscious, had explained that if anyone knew what it was and what could protect against it, it would be Longbottom. He did a lot of research into such things, and had been left many books by the late Mad-Eye Moody (Sherlock said he didn't remember what the man's real name was).

Those who were already within the boundaries of the charms containing the poison had been left until healers could enter reasonably safely. John was glad he hadn't been awake for that bit.

Apparently the poison had hit them slowly, getting worse and worse. The young woman had been fast in thinking and had cast a bubble head charm on her baby then herself. Some of the aurors had managed to too, others had cast them on their unconscious colleagues.

But even bubble heads hadn't lasted, especially for those who'd already inhaled before casting the spells. There had been panicking and screaming and no one dared come to help.

They were lucky to be alive, John knew that.

It had been hard, watching loved ones come to the war, talking to them from the other side of a shield. Dressed in strange plastic overalls and wearing bubbles on their heads, just in case. John wondered if it was sacrilegious for wizards to wear plastic, as it just didn't seem right. Sherlock told him not to be stupid.

Sherlock looked terribly...fragile in a set of hospital slacks.

John felt sorry for him, no one had come to see him, not even Mycroft. Mycroft had sent a message, but had made no appearance in person. All of the other visitors had acknowledged him, smiled, maybe even said a few words, but none had directly gone to see him. Mary had come to see John of course, and had pressed her nose up against the shield, her hand gracing it and covering his. Ginny had appeared to see Harry and had yelled at him so much John felt the barrier itself by crack.

The healers had offered Sherlock and Harry private rooms due to their celebrity status. Neither had accepted.

Hermione Granger came to see Ron, and John was glad to finally meet her. She also had been fairly scolding, demanding to know what exactly he'd been doing chasing after people, and he'd quipped something about knowing that he could have been killed, or worse expelled. Her smile said everything and John knew he'd have to take charm tips from Ron. Ron had winked at him when Hermione had gone to lecture Sherlock.

Snape wasn't exactly how John had expected him to be. But at the same time he was the oversized greasy bat that he'd come to know and love from listening to Sherlock's stories. Snape had been working on an antidote with Longbottom. John didn't like owing his life to someone, let alone someone he didn't know.

It almost seemed to easy. When they finally got the all clear to leave John made the mistake of thinking that meant he and Sherlock were heading home to recuperate for a few hours. Instead he ended up being dragged in front of Harry Potter, who told him some address in London and asked him if he remembered it. He said no in surprise, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Write it down for him, he's got a sieve for a brain it seems," he hissed.

"What?" John demanded. He hardly thought that was fair, he'd literally just changed into his own clothing, and he needed a good's night rest. A decent meal that wasn't a hospital meal, and oh god he was meant to be in work. He started to object-

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh for god's sake John! Harry is a secret keeper, he just told you the address-"

Ginny frowned, putting a hand on her partner's arm and another on her hip, she glared at Sherlock. "You don't need to be such a horrible person all the time Sherlock! John, when you first met Sherlock he told you the address right? That's because there was a special type of charm on the house, though he's since removed it and I don't know why, and it protects the house and hides it if you like. It's called-"

"It doesn't matter!" said Sherlock, "John doesn't care. No time. Dumbledore died. Everyone secret keepers. Re-cast. Now Harry. Harry told you the address so that you 'knew' the secret. And the address is?"

"Twelve Grimmauld Place yes, I heard," John said. "But why are we going there? Why are you still here when Ron and them lot have gone?"

This time Harry sighed. "They are already there. I am waiting for you. Because you're taking a ridiculously long time, and Sherlock can't bring you if I don't tell you where it is. This is why I don't deal with Muggles Sherlock."

"Harry!" protested Ginny. "Sherlock Holmes you're a bad influence on him, he was never this rude before you two started going around together! Harry you were raised by Muggles for crying-"

"Please," Harry placed an hand on her wrist as she wagged a finger at him.

She backed down. "Oh I'm sorry dear, but please, sometimes you sound-"

John sighed. This looked as if it was going to be a long day, with a lot of sighing involved. But suddenly Harry had grabbed his arm, and they were apparating or disapparating or as John liked to put it 'trying to kill me' again. They landed and John stumbled forward, landing on one knee, in the middle of a fairly quiet London road. Before him there were many thin tall houses, and where there shouldn't have been one.

"Wow," breathed John.

Harry grinned. "I'm sorry. I get it, I was like this the first time round too, finding out all this cool stuff about wizards. My godfather, Sirius, left me this place in his will. His dad put every security measure known to wizard kind on it, it's unplottable so Muggles can't just stumble across it handing out leaflets or whatever. Makes it hard to order a takeaway though, and Dumbledore, before- before...well he put up a load of protection on it. Then we removed the old fidelius charm and replaced it, took a while, but with the likes of that git and that other git," he gestured to Snape, "it's a safe place."

John was aware that Sherlock was muttering something about wasting time. But he figured, while bringing him along to a wizard battle thing was like Sherlock taking a plastic spork to a knife fight, at least if he knew what was going on he was more like a metal spork, which made him slightly more useful. So he let Harry keep talking.

"Anyway, it's the perfect place for headquarters," Harry said, shoving the door open and holding it for Ginny. He held it for John and let Sherlock hold it himself.

The house was huge inside, and clean, cleaner than John had imagined for some reason. At the end of the hallway there was a covered painting, and John could swear he heard something. Then it started to scream.

John didn't fully understand what all the terms it used connoted, but from beneath a dark cloth came cries about filthy mudbloods and muggles, letting down the Black name, and traitors.

"Hello Mrs Black," called Harry cheerfully. Then he slammed a hand into the wall. "Kindly shut up you stupid old woman!"

Sherlock chuckled. "You still haven't had her portrait removed?"

Harry shrugged. "I quite like the company. Reminds me what I'm fighting against."

Shaking her head Ginny led them into the kitchen, calling out to alert those in the house to their arrival. "I hate the woman."

"Headquarters for what?"

Harry sat down at the table as Ginny made to put the kettle on. John watched in surprise as Sherlock volunteered to help and gestured that he sit. Harry glanced up at Sherlock and then turned back to John. "The Order of the Phoenix, or Dumbledore's Army. Whichever you think suits us best. We'll just wait for them all to join us. This also acts as my home now, which reminds me, Gin?" he called. "What time are the kids going to be back from Hermy's?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Honestly! Don't you listen? Mum's got all the kids over at hers for the night. Best not to disturb them, given how late it is, don't you think? I've told them that Daddy's better, but they were upset because they weren't allowed to see you in quarantine. Floo them in the morning. Hermione and Ron will be here soon, and once everyone's arrived the meeting can start. Ok?"

John couldn't believe that they flickered in and out of normality so easily. One minute Ginny and Sherlock were pouring tea and stirring things, and chatting with such ease that John swore that the detective was faking it. But he'd be talking about the kids and about school, and then it would be something magical but plausible, and then it'd be Voldemort and the first Wizarding War and Grindewald and invisibility cloaks.

Harry leant close to him. "Why don't I give you a tour of the house?" he asked. "And you realise they're up to something don't you?"

John stood, trying not to look at Sherlock and Ginny as they leant against the countertops, sipping from their mugs and discussing spying techniques and the resistance. "What do you mean?" he murmured.

"Well I don't know about your Sherlock," Harry began-

John cut him off as they passed the dreadful portrait and made their way into the long narrow hallway. "He's not mine."

"Well Ginny offers you a cup of tea usually and then she tells you exactly where the kettle can be found so that you can make it yourself. And they made tea in more or less the Muggle way."

John hadn't noticed, but he didn't suppose he would.

"They wanted to talk about something, and wanted us out of the way," Harry told him knowingly. "Well we'd better let them. Anyway, this is the bathroom with the nicer bath, the other ones make a strange squeaking noise."

John nodded glancing around. It looked too modern to fit in with the rest of the house. Maybe Ginny or Harry had done a bit of redecorating. "When you run the tap?" he asked.

Harry shook his head. "Nah, the bath just squeaks in general," he laughed and then began explaining the different functions of the various taps.

SHSHSH

"I'm worried about him Sherlock," Ginny murmured, cradling the mug in her hands. "I think he might be-"

Sherlock nodded. "I understand," he tried to sound as sincere as possible.

Ginny set the mug down and turned away to reach for a soothing concoction. She knew that adding potions to drinks wasn't a good path to go down, but sometimes everyone needs a little something to steel their nerves, a little something to help them sleep, to stop them hearing screams each time they close their eyes. "Please Sherlock, don't."

Sherlock tried to pat her on the shoulder comfortingly. It seemed forced to him. He wondered if she would notice.

Ginny did, but she realised he was trying. "Thank you."

SHSHSH

The meeting was quite frankly terrifying. There had been people John didn't recognise there, and a few he did, he was surprised when Sherlock explained that everyone wasn't there. Hermione and Ron, Longbottom, and Harry and Ginny of course, Snape. Then there was Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ron's brothers- Bill, Percy and Charlie, but no George, Fleur Delacour, and others that he was only introduced to as the meeting went on.

Sherlock nudged him and gestured to a man who'd arrived a few minutes late. "That's Dean Thomas, used to have a thing for our beloved redhead," he nodded towards Ginny. "Speaking of holding flames, you see the handsome man, my age, yes him, please don't stare with your mouth open. Viktor Krum. One day Hermione Weasley, nee Granger, will divorce that ridiculous man and run right into his arms."

"You shouldn't say things like that Sherlock," hissed John. "It's clear that Hermione and Ron love each other very much."

"No it's not," hissed Sherlock back. "And just look at the looks Ron is giving Krum. I predict a fist fight. That's the Irish one," he pointed at a man Harry's age. "Good friends with Dean. Forgettable name."

"Who's the giant?" whispered John.

Sherlock glared at him. "John! That's offensive and rude! His name is Hagrid. Moving on. That's Lee Jordan, still runs Potterwatch, I tune in every now and then. Not that interesting. Anyway, that's Fleur's younger sister, put your tongue back in your mouth, she's part Veela..."

And so it went on and on and John forgot half the people's names. But he listened and as the meeting got into full swing and different people made reports and different people threatened different people, arguments happened and were resolved, wands were raised and put away, he got more scared and more scared.

When they stopped for a break after two and a half hours, it didn't seem soon enough. Sherlock and Harry disappeared to a smoking area with a man and two women. Others went into the kitchen for a cup of tea, a few went to make calls to friends and relations, or to get some fresh air.

A horrible ugly creature had appeared and shook John's hand, then disappeared with a sound like the crack of a whip.

John then stood awkwardly in the hall wishing the ground would consume him. That was when Longbottom approached him and offered his hand. The portrait of Sirius's mother was muttering something about wanting to sleep.

"Neville Longbottom, very good to meet you Dr. Watson," he shook his hand vigorously.

"Please call me John, Mr. Longbottom, it's good to meet you too. Molly's told me a lot about you," he smiled awkwardly. Doing things awkwardly was all he seemed able to do.

Neville nodded. "Molly, yes. We're...yes. She talks about Sherlock an awful lot though. And I'm aware that I'll never be the hero, I'll never be the chosen one or Sherlock Holmes or even a bloody sidekick. But well..."

"I heard you were a warhero Neville, and Sherlock's told me a lot about the sort of thing you did. And I owe you my life, you and Severus Snape," he glanced up at the younger man. "Don't put yourself down."

Neville shrugged. "I'm a bit useless though."

"What is it between you and Snape?" asked John, leaning closer to Neville as Dean Thomas and Viktor Krum strode past them.

Clenching fists, a sharp inhale of breath. John knew he'd hit a nerve.

"We don't get on very well, just because we're on the same side, it doesn't mean we have to like each other," Neville shut his eyes momentarily, rubbing them with his fingers. "I used to be scared of him. Terrified. Tell me what that shows about me? But now, no, I'm sick of being scared. And I'm sick of letting people like Voldemort scare me. People started getting married when they heard about Moriarty, his whole thing. They thought there was going to be another war. But I'm not living my life afraid, you know? I can't do that."

John nodded.

He wished he wasn't so afraid.

But Moriarty may or may not have been back. And he'd played one card already, because while the whole bio-threat thing had been a good one, they'd found an antidote, they'd managed to contain it. They knew they could fight it. So it was wasted. He'd have to develop something new, something further. Which meant he had to have more cards up his sleeves.

Moriarty had never had horcruxes, at least that's what Sherlock had said. But what if he had had one. Or two. Or more.

All these what ifs, and John hated it. Because he knew Moriarty was dead. He'd shot himself in the head. No one survives that. But apparently, he could have, and all John could think was why had no one considered that before?

Harry had explained how they'd had Moriarty's body cremated to ensure he had nothing to return to, to make it harder. Then there'd been all this talk of ghosts.

They hadn't even solely focus on Moriarty, the Order seemed to have gone from one thing to another, flicking back and forth like flames and wildfire.

At least now he knew how Sherlock had survived. He'd had a wand in his hand when he fell. Apparating while moving was hard apparently, and risky, easy to do wrong. That explained why Sherlock did it. Always a risk taker. Always a bloody idiot.

John had also wondered why Mycroft wasn't there. Bill had explained to him while they watched Kingsley and Harry shouting at each other, that the Minister himself couldn't be part of a 'secret' organisation that was completely separate to the ministry. He supposed it made sense. Then Bill had said that didn't stop ministry members operating within it, and that it was a mainly to stop complications thing. Kingsley hadn't attended during his term in office.

"I'm, urm, I'm glad about you and Molly..." he managed to blurt out.

Neville blushed as beetroot red as Ron's hair. "Thank you. And you and Mary, well yes."

It was the perfect epitome of an exchange between two men in a pub. Full of fillers and stutters and hiding emotions again because they were men who conformed to social stereotypes and gender expectations.

SHSHSHSH

They had been called back into the meeting, and had just started looking at something Percy Weasley had confiscated in some raid or other, when they heard the front door slam open, setting off the awful portrait, but none of the alarms set in place to ring out in the event of a breach in security.

A drunk young man stumbled into the hallway, and into the meeting room. John gasped as he noticed that the young man, who had to be seventeen or maybe eighteen at a push, had hair that was changing colour as he wobbled, and his nose seemed to be growing and shrinking.

His eyes were blue one minute, and then a firey red.

"Teddy!" called Harry, standing, making his way towards the teenager.

Ginny was already on her feet, her hand on the boy's shoulder, soothing him. He shoved her away, nearly knocking her into Hermione who was also on her feet.

"Fuck off!" he called, staggering forwards. "Fuck you," he pointed at Harry. "And fuck you all," he glared around the room.

John was on his feet in seconds. "Ok mate, I think you need to sit down."

Harry smiled politely as the meeting looked as if it was about to explode into disorder once more. Gently yet forcibly he placed a hand on Teddy's arm and with John on the other side they flanked him back into the hallway.

"If everyone could just sit down!" Harry called. "Kingsley can you carry on for a bit. I'll just be two minutes."

"Have you taken anything Teddy?" John asked, crouching down beside the boy.

He spat at John, and John winced. Harry looked ready to hex him.

"Don't worry, I've had worse, and besides, not infectious are you?" he hoped not as he glanced at the boy. But even if he was, there was sod all he could do now. "Right. Have you taken anything Teddy?"

"Enough of his shit to last a life time!" hissed Teddy, glowering at Harry who simply crossed his arms over his chest.

Back in the meeting room there was an argument in process. Sherlock was trying to explain that John was a doctor. The others seemed to think that was a title.

"Move aside Dr. Watson!"

"Don't crowd me!" protested John.

"I am a healer!"

Harry sighed. "Oh for crying out loud, he's an angsty teen who's drank too much tonight and needs to sober up and not get involved in things that aren't any of his business! He's done this too many times this month! Snape, you and half of everyone else in that room's a bloody healer. So if you don't mind-"

John silenced Harry. "Harry he's clearly got a problem. I don't like the look in his eyes-"

"They change colour anyway John! Forgive me, but you're new to this, just help me get him to bed, ok? Snape, get your arse back-"

Snape looked ready to kill. "Do not speak to me like that-"

"He's a Doctor, you stupid man, listen to him. He knows more than half the healers as St. Mungo's!"

"Don't get involved Longbottom!"

When the boy started to froth at the mouth and shake all arguments were forgotten and the meeting continued and all was well. Neville Longbottom stood in the doorway and watched as Harry ran his hands through his hair and paced, and Severus Snape and John Watson worked like a perfectly oiled machine, in unison, their actions mirroring each others.

He'd never seen a Muggle so at home with magic, and he wondered if that's what being around Sherlock Holmes did to a person.

They talked in hushed whispers. And then, when Teddy stopped shaking, John stayed knelt beside him. Snape stood and started to murmur something into Harry's ear, and Harry shook his head and shook his head and finally nodded.

"You're right, he needs to go to St. Mungo's," said Harry, emptily almost, as if nothing remained in his soul.

Snape whispered something else, and John watched as Harry, like a blind man looking at the world through fog, nodded. "Ok. Yes."

Neville moved away from the door frame. "I'll go with him. Harry they need you in there. And Pro- Snape, they need you too," he turned to John. "You'd better make sure Sherlock hasn't started too many wars in there."

"Thank you," nodded Harry, turning from Neville to Teddy and then to Snape, who put a hand on his shoulder and guided him back into the meeting room. It seemed an unnatural embrace, and Harry almost collided with the oversized bat, as he stopped and span on his heel in the doorway. "Thank you," he repeated, before turning away.

And so the meeting continued, and everything was fine. Except it wasn't.


	5. Not Dead

"I'm sorry I can't hear you above the noise of the interference!" Molly practically yelled into her mobile. She put a hand over the phone and nodded at Mrs. Hudson. "Magical interference is just the worst isn't it? Yes! Neville yes I'm still here! Well when Mrs. Hudson's friend called her to say you were in St. Mungo's again I just had to call you...you know I can't conjure a corporeal patronus!"

It went on like that back and forth, with Neville promising that all was well and good and fine, and Molly worrying because that tends to be what Mollys do best. Finally she hung up and turned to Mrs. Hudson, who'd taken the tube and a taxi all the way across London just to get to her flat just to reach her.

"What about Sherlock dear, and John?"

Molly sighed. "They're all fine- why didn't you apparate here Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "At my age dear, with this hip? I think not! Three wizarding wars I've lived through dear, oh yes- I remember that Gelert...wicked man, I count his rise. You young ones forget it started with him. Mind you...I was only in my sixties when Voldemort- oh Molly dear," she exclaimed patting Molly on the hand.

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson," she smiled back. "It's just knee jerk."

Mrs. Hudson nodded understandingly and then smiled. "But you're Muggle born dear...I suppose...well there's no taboo on his name now. And remember what that young Dumbledore used to say- fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. Yes, I was only in my sixties the first time Voldemort started up. It was...anyway, when that young Harry defeated him the first time- well let me tell you- I haven't danced that much since. Actually- I danced more in 98'."

Molly was trying to do sums in her head and calculate how old Mrs. Hudson was as she tried to make tea, which caused her to get careless with her wand and mind almost leading to an unfortunate case of a burnt kitchen, but she gave up on the sums and began concentrating. She only hoped that she'd look as good if she ever reached her hundreds. Finally she set two steaming mugs down in her modest living area- attached to her kitchenette (a living area that served as a spare bedroom too), and convinced Mrs. Hudson that the best thing they could do was sit tight.

Neither Sherlock nor John were hurt, in fact they were both at a very important meeting at the place Harry told you about _do you remember in case of emergencies?_ But Mrs. Hudson was worried, and Molly really didn't have the heart to send her back to Baker Street, despite the fact that she really did need to be up early and Sherlock kept insisting England would fall without her there. Truth be, Molly didn't feel like being alone

"Sherlock called; Sherlock never calls, to say something about Moriarty. About being extra careful. You don't think he's back do you?"

Molly shrugged, she'd got a patronus off Neville. She felt that she should have done something about Moriarty sooner, she'd been dating him. It was one of those things, you were meant to look out for friends being radicalised, after the fall of Voldemort. In fact she'd done a talk at Hogwarts, with some Slytherin boy, about equality and radicalisation and the signs. She ought to have known.

"I don't know Mrs. Hudson," she admitted after an awkward silence. "I just don't. But I've put extra wards up tonight."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

"Is it true your husband was a Death Eater?"

As soon as she realised what she'd said, Molly threw a hand to her mouth. "I am so sorry, I didn't mean to sound blunt."

Mrs. Hudson had put down her tea, and then she picked it up, shook herself and with a dignity that only the British seem able to muster spoke. "Sort of dear. He...wasn't a very nice man, betrayed me, betrayed the cause. Not a very nice man at all."

Molly decided it was all or nothing. "Is it true Sherlock sent him to the dementors?"

"Oh yes dear, and no...he deserved it. We'd been married, oh I don't know, a good twenty years- yes we married late! Right in the middle of Voldemort's reign. I didn't know. I didn't know," she took Molly's hands, "I didn't know."

"I heard..." Molly paused, "I heard he would've gotten away with it. He wasn't implicated during the First War, didn't even take the mark. And during the Second, I mean it was stealthier, but there was still Death Eaters and- he didn't take the mark, but my word he was one of them. I...I saw him Molly dear, I saw him putting on the mask. Can you imagine that? Two of us OAPs, both out in the streets fighting on different sides. And then I told him not to ever come home. Ever."

Molly leaned closer, intrigued. "And what happened?"

"He came home," the elderly witch sighed. "And I'm sure you can imagine what happened."

Molly paused. "You know hardly any of the Death Eaters were sent to the dementors, only the first of the many convincted of the worst war crimes, and Harry pushed for execution most of the time as opposed to having their soul destroyed, simply because it was kinder. They were abolished literally weeks after the war ended."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Oh yes dear, but Sherlock...well he's a fast worker isn't he dear? And you know, he'd do the same for you dear. Sherlock I mean, if he got his hands on that Jim."

That took Molly aback, but she refused to show it because Sherlock Holmes had taken too many of her feelings already. "Right Mrs. Hudson it's late and you're not trekking across London at this time of night. Now, I've got a pair of pyjamas you can borrow and I'll put on a film and order us some Chinese," she grinned and her face lit up, "in fact there being safety in numbers, I know another witch who's going to be all on her own tonight. Let's make this a party."

Silently Molly cursed the fact that she spoke before she thought, she had to work in the morning. Mary was probably in bed. In fact Mary wasn't, Mary was rather annoyed it appeared, that John was off gallivanting at an Order of the Phoenix meeting with Sherlock Holmes, and she hadn't got a call at all about the whole Moriarty thing- as a pureblood, she'd explained to Molly and Mrs. Hudson, with a steady job in the Wizarding World (_"I'm in charge of relations between Muggle and Wizard healing in a few clinics around London. Basically I sort out Gpesque ailments for wizards, not everything needs a trip to St. Mungo's. One of those clinics happens to be the one John works at.)_

Soon Mary, Molly and Mrs. Hudson (whom neither Mary nor Molly was totally sure of her first name) were all munching away and drinking a bottle of wine at a dangerous speed. They were about to move onto the firewhiskey.

"You know, John says he doesn't shave for Sherlock Holmes, but he sure as hell doesn't shave for me!" Mary protested. "And now he's off at a meeting with a few of the most dangerous people in the world, and Sherlock's just putting him in danger again."

Mrs. Hudson tutted. "Now dear, that's not true- Sherlock would never put him in danger!"

The three witches paused, then a cackle began somewhere between them, and soon they were laughing like hags.

"Fine, there was that time in Baskerville-" Mrs. Hudson began.

"He only _thought_ he'd doped him!" Molly protested with a splutter. "What was that? Some animagous or something scaring people! But turned out to be much more than that didn't it? Oh goodness, what was it- some gas warfare and a wizard of the Lockart twit level who thought he'd capitalise on it!"

A howl went up amongst the three, and soon they were reminiscing and laughing and it was almost too easy to forget they were potentially on the brink of another war.

_HPHPHPHPHPHPHP_

Neville Longbottom sat in a chair in St. Mungo's newly refurbished Casualty department and waited, he didn't like waiting.

He caught a glance of himself in one of the shiny mirrored panels on the large desk, at which sat a bored looking receptionist chewing ever lasting gum.

Neville reasoned he didn't look too bad for a thirty something teacher, in fact, he looked quite tidy (Molly was the only person to ever refer to him as such). But since when had he become this? A thirty something Herbology teacher, steady relationship, member of the Order of the Phoenix, working so close with Severus Snape it made him vomit. When did he become sensible?

When had it ended? The heartache, the angst, the being an angry upset teenager, the being an angry and upset teenager fighting a war? He couldn't even remember when the war ended, because it hadn't with the Battle of Hogwarts, not really. There had been trials, and Death Eater hunts that had been almost as bad as the witch hunts had been for Muggles. Everyone accused everyone of being Death Eaters.

There had been the aftermath, the post war years.

Then when he was twenty two Witch Weekly had asked him to do a photoshoot, and he'd obliged, he'd received a lot of attention because of that. Someone (he was looking at George Weasley) had submitted a picture of him that Creevey had taken back when he was a second year, and the magazine had put both photos side by side and had excitedly declared that awkward young potential chosen one had blossomed into a heroic hunk.

He found the post-war years...odd, as if they were out of time really. Everyone was recovering. There were still fears, and things seemed forced- like over excitedness, over happiness. It was horrible.

And then there was Molly Hooper, who'd decked a Death Eater with her bare hands to get his wand off him physically. Molly whom he'd kept in touch with, writing to and her writing back, and it had been...was it Dean Thomas's wedding reception they'd been sat at the same table. She'd made a terrible joke when he'd apologised for his lack of conversation, and she'd been all 'it's alright, I'm used to working with people who don't talk back' on account of working in a morgue.

"You're still here."

Neville looked up wearily, and then beamed. "Of course I am Teddy, are you ready to go?"

"They said I could leave," he muttered, shrugging. "Got to take this-" he held up a vial, and then he held up a leaflet, "-and I'm meant to read this, and then this-" he held up another piece of paper for Neville's inspection, "-is in case I'm interested in any ridiculous help groups."

Neville nodded. "Quite right," he held up Tedddy's jacket. "Right. Now I've got no permanent address at this very moment, but, but I have got my quarters at Hogwarts, and it's the second week of the Easter Holidays. So there won't be too many kids around if you-?"

"You don't have to do that Professor Longbottom," Teddy protested. "I have a home," he laughed one harsh cough of a laugh. "I have two, heck three. My Granny's, Harry's and Grimmauld Place. And you know what I do, I chuck that back in their faces."

"Right," Neville nodded. "And I haven't been your professor since you quit Herbology oooh, two, three years ago? It's Neville. And a change of scenery is good sometimes. Your Gran is probably asleep, and the other two aren't the best bet right now."

Teddy nodded, cradling his jacket in his arms as they walked together towards the exit. "You didn't have to leave the meeting, I'm sorry you did."

Neville glanced at his watch, it was ridiculously late. He wondered what Molly was doing right now. "I'm just a Herbology teacher Teddy, to be honest I'm not a hero or a great wizard or anything like that. Got lucky with a sword a few years ago. Besides, the Order is starting to feel a bit like the mafia- everyone's a Weasley or married to one."

The younger wizard began to laugh, and soon they were both giggling and had to walk very quickly to the exit because the bored receptionist was glaring angrily at them over her spectacles. Neville reasoned they'd distracted her from the copy of Witch Weekly that she was looking at every now and then, picking at the illustrations every now and then as if she could touch the material of the robes or the soft skin or the shimmering text.

"They wouldn't have gone you know," Teddy muttered. "If it wasn't for him. My Mum, she shouldn't have gone, but she couldn't let Harry do it alone. That's what my Granny says. Stupid cow couldn't let poor Harry go alone into that fight. Didn't he have enough people on his side?"

There weren't many starts out, the fresh cold air hit Neville like a wall. It contrasted starkly with the self contained cool of the hospital and the freshness was far less like a battering ram to the nostrils than the strong disinfectant had been.

"Your mother was a very brave woman, and you do not speak about her like that."

Teddy didn't react, as if he hadn't even heard, his hair turned a violent green."My dad, fair enough, he'd always go, kind of man he was apparently. But my Mum, why? Who leaves their baby behind to go to a battle she might die at?"

"A woman who wants to make sure there's a world behind for that baby to grow up in," Neville snapped. "My Dad's here you know. In this hospital. My Mum died a year ago now. Probably the best thing for her, she went away peacefully one night. They were here because they didn't give in, I know you know that, you've heard about them, you've heard about what Lestrange did to the Longbottoms haven't you?"

By this point Teddy had slipped his jacket on and deposited his collection from the healers into various pockets. He shoved his hands deep into his jeans and shrugged.

"I said have you, or haven't you?"

He nodded.

"It's easy to be angry, but I know you don't mean it. You know Harry's Mum could have stepped aside, Volde- oh come on Teddy. Don't you dare flinch. Voldemort offered Harry's Mum a choice," Neville struggled to meet Teddy's averted gaze. He watched as the boy's fists clenched and unclenched. "Listen to me, Voldemort killed his Dad straight out. And then he offered his Mum a choice, give him Harry, or die. And it was her love who saved him for so long. Your Mum, she made a decision, she was young- younger than me now and I am _not _old before you even say it!" he tried to smile just to offer some relief of tension, "she died for you and for her friends and everyone she loved. Not Harry, at least not alone."

Teddy shrugged again and Neville resisted the urge to put his hands around the boy's neck and squeeze.

"People look at me different," he began. "Because I'm...well you know. Half werewolf, half freak."

"Metamo-" Neville began, ready to add 'and that's not how werewolf-ism really works.

"Whatever."

Neville shook his head, he resisted the urge to turn and look at Teddy. "I think we'll apparate from here and then walk up from Hogsmeade?"

Teddy shrugged. "Whatever."

Neville could tell this was going to be a very long night.

_HPHPHPHPHPHPHP_

Mrs. Hudson was just in the middle of telling Molly and Mary about the time Sherlock had let loose gremlins in the flat and John had lost almost all of his socks and come very close to discovering magic, when there was a scream.

The speed at which wands were drawn would rival the reaction time of the Order itself.

And then someone was hammering at the door.

_HPHPHPHPHPHPHP_

Mycroft Holmes rolled over as he felt Greg Lestrade's hands exploring his body, though not unwelcome but a surprise. Since when had his favourite Detective Inspector been so..._frisky? _It was always Mycroft, doing the leg work, starting them off.

"What time is it?"

"Early," Greg murmured. "Or late. Depending on your definition," and yet he was wide awake, or maybe he just couldn't sleep. His hands moved up Mycroft's chest, onto the scar- a terrible scar, where the werewolf had bitten him. "Full moon tomorrow, all stocked up on your wolfsbane?"

Mycroft groaned and covered his eyes. "Of course I am. And I'm sure it'll be all sorted. Did something wake you up?"

Greg shrugged and wriggled again. Over Mycroft's right shoulder he could see his wedding ring on the bedside table. It made him feel slightly giggle. Then he remembered the cow was sleeping with some Quidditch teacher. "Maybe I don't find it easy to sleep, knowing there's an Order meeting going that's probably lasted all night-"

Mycroft turned to face him. "You know for a secret activist group they're not very secret are they?"

Greg nodded, "Sherlock's involved, Harry freaking Potter's involved, of course they're not going to be very secret. They're too Gryffindor- they need the attention," he sighed. "And maybe I can't sleep because Jim Moriarty might be back, and that isn't very good."

The room seemed darker than usual and Greg wasn't sure why. He'd always loved Mycroft's bedroom, and he felt childish saying it. As Minister of Magic he lived as near to the Ministry as was safe, far enough away to feel separate from it all. His house, modest yet luxurious, was beautiful and gorgeous and this room, Greg loved it. The ceiling was like Hogwarts's ceiling, made of stars that moved- Sherlock could never have appreciated it. And during the day the sky was a bright blue that could turn grey to replicate the weather outside to a moderate extent, The walls were the same as the night sky during the night, or when Mycroft went to bed (not necessarily night) and during the day a dull beige.

But at night, Greg felt like a child sleeping on a cloud, with the floor, the walls and the sky all melting away. He leant forward to catch a kiss, just a gentle and quick brush of the lips.

"Well," Mycroft smiled slightly shutting his eyes, "I'm not allowed at Order meetings due to a conflict of interest, and neither are you because you're not even an auror. Just a lowly detective."

Raising an eyebrow Greg tugged at the blankets that Mycroft was hogging. Blankets, no duvet, traditional and warm and "You need to learn how to share!"

"Or maybe you need to sleep in your own bed, do you not have a home to go to Inspector Lestrade?"

Pushing himself tight against Mycroft, Greg grinned as he brought their noses nose to nose. "I'd better take the back door in the morning, or people will talk," he raised an eyebrow suggestively. "They'll say I slept my way into my job."

"You've slept your way into many jobs," Mycroft shrugged snatching a haphazard kiss. "Or you could have. You know half the Ministry would be happy to see you working with the aurors, you're a good wizard Greg. And a good detective. We need men like you."

They would have continued snuggling and kissing lightly, had Anthea's head not appeared in the fireplace that moment, albeit with a hand over her eyes.

"Sir! Are you decent?"

Mycroft shoved himself up on his elbows confirming it and Greg sighed deeply and decided it best if he bit the bullet and sat up.

Give Anthea her due, she didn't even blink when she saw Lestrade. "Minister, Detective Inspector, there's been a break in."

"What?" Mycroft groaned rubbing his eyes.

Greg shook his head. "Not my division sorry love," he glanced at Mycroft and appreciated the hard squeeze of a hand he received from him. "And I don't think it's his either."

"No sir," there was a frantic tone in Anthea's voice that Mycroft wasn't comfortable with. They'd worked together for a good few years now, and he hadn't heard her afraid very often. "It's him. It's Moriarty. He's broken into the Department of Mysteries."

_HPHPHPHPHPHPHP_

"What the hell were you before you were a nurse?" demanded Molly.

Mary shrugged, brushing imaginary dust from her dustless pyjamas. "I was...an assassin."

"Huh," Molly put her hands on her hips and bent forward slightly breathless. "Of course you were. Of course. Right. Sure," she glanced around at the bodies on her floor, seven stunned, three dead, four out cold but not from being stunned, one was conscious but bound and wandless, and one had got away. "Shit."

"And you're just a pathologist?" Mary asked quietly, wiping a bit of blood from her mouth.

"Not all bodies like to stay dead really," Molly nodded, she could feel tears prickling at her eyes. Plus you know, wizarding war and all that I guess. Right. Ok."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Oh dear, that one's bled a bit on your carpet Molly, I'm sure we'll be able to get it out," she glanced at the conscious man who had a nasty cut on his forehead. "Oh dear."

Molly took a deep breath. "Mrs. Hudson, you have clearly still got it in you," she counted to three in her head. "Right, could you and Mary please redo my wards? And maybe if one of you could call Lestrade or someone. Thank you."

That only left one thing. Or person.

Molly had only met her a few times, and they'd never been..._friends. _At least, at school, she'd fancied the pants of Sherlock, and in return he'd used her and abused her and gone after the unattainable like Irene. Then she'd fallen for Neville in fourth year, but had been too scared to ask him to the dance or anything and they both had settled into a sort of dance around each other, until the wedding.

"You better explain how the hell you found out where I live, and why the hell you came here!" Molly began, and then she paused taking another juttery breath. "But first, you can come with me to the kitchen and help me make tea. Ok?"

Molly was trying very hard not to have a panic attack.

"And your supposed to be dead," Molly grit her teeth. "You're supposed to be dead."


	6. Break In

The Order's meeting came to an abrupt halt, when suddenly fake galleons began to shimmer slightly, a head appeared in the fireplace, two patronuses stampeded through the walls and into the room, and John's phone began to ring.

John was getting a bit bored, and he cursed himself for welcoming the excitement. _Am I really becoming Sherlock Holmes? _The wizards had been discussing some motion or other, and some issue with some policy that the ministry had passed. John never thought that he'd find sitting in on the meeting of a magical secret freedom fighting group tiring, but then again, he never imagined he'd be sitting in on such a meeting.

"Mary?" he cried, struggling to hear her above the din. "Mary what's wrong?"

He was trying to take everything in. The coins that some members had sat out on the table before them, they were galleons, badges of honour. If you had one, it meant that you had been a member of Dumbledore's Army. And messages could be sent via them. They were being read quickly.

"_Oh thank god John! I've tried Sherlock but his phone isn't- anyway, Irene Adler is back." _

John thought perhaps he should be insulted that she tried Sherlock first. Then he took in what she'd said. "But she's dead-" he protested. "And how do you know-?"

The patronuses, and John only knew that was what they were called, because Sherlock had shown him a picture a few days ago, began to talk. Both spoke across each other, shouting for attention. One had Neville's voice. The other sounded like Mycroft.

"_She was infamous at Hogwarts. And she's sat in front of me right now. Are you with the Order?"_

Only those who knew the secret could speak via floo within the Order Head Quarters. John didn't understand that. People couldn't travel via floo, that was simply too unsafe. So the man in the fireplace must be someone trusted, and yet he didn't look like someone from the photos Sherlock had shown him. He didn't recognise him, but maybe he did. Maybe…

"Yes, yes I am-"

The world was spinning. People were moving. Sherlock was grabbing him by the shoulders.

_"__Molly sent a message out to them. But she said Sherlock doesn't carry his coin because he doesn't like what it represents. Idiot. We've had no response from Lestrade or from any aurors, what's happening?"_

Harry was trying to regain control of the meeting. He was failing spectacularly.

"Silence!"

John flinched and resisted the urge to sit down and cross his arms like a good little school boy. Instead he whispered into the phone; "I'll have to call you back," he paused, "I love you," he added hastily, and hung up.

Professor Snape, and after the use of such a spectacular _teacher _voice, John couldn't think of him as anything but that, stood in the centre of the room. "Thank you," Professor Snape snarled. "Now that you are all behaving like the rational adults you claim to be…can we please relay information in a calm and…collected, manner. Mr. Smith, perhaps you would like to go first?"

The head in the fireplace smiled. "Thank you…Snape. There has been a break in, in the secure levels of Switzerland's Ministry of Magic-"

"What is he doing in Switzerland?" hissed Sherlock at John. "Mycroft said-"

"What part of silence do you not understand Mr. Holmes?" Snape glared at them.

"I cannot divulge my location Sherlock," Zacharias continued.

"You're clearly in Switzerland!" protested Sherlock. "Speak quickly."

Zacharias Smith didn't have much more to say other than that there had been a break in. John was waiting for the name _Moriarty _to come up. Harry was waiting for the name _Moriarty _to come up. Sherlock was waiting for the name _Moriarty _to come up. Except it didn't. No one had seen anyone go in. Nor had they seen anyone come out. Nor had anything been taken.

But carved into the ceiling of a corridor connecting one highly secure area with another, a tunnel type corridor that could not possibly be breached, it was simply unfathomable, was a short simple sentence.

_Enemies of the heir, beware. _

Hermione Weasley nearly attempted to apparate within Grimmauld Place when she picked her coin up, and John wondered why Molly had never mentioned her. John had never imagined that meek and mild Molly Hooper would be part of a teenage rebellion group. He never imagined that she would have fought in a war so young, and was willing to die so young. Was forced to be willing to die so young. And all the conversations they'd had, he'd never even guessed. Molly always seemed to share so much, had told him about school and about family and friends, yet it had all been twisted, made superficial and trivial. She condensed her entire self to chit chat.

The first patronus was Neville. He'd heard it as he was taking Teddy back to his. Gringott's had had a break in. Gringott's had had a handful of break-ins over the years, but all of which were stopped, and no one had yet to succeed in stealing something. Apart from that one time with the dragon, but no one talked about that. Just as the other times, no one had stolen something this time. But that wasn't the interesting thing, and Sherlock's face lit up when it got interesting (John had to kick him). There hadn't been an attempted theft at all. Rather, someone had deposited something.

Someone had broken into Gringott's, and gone to the higher-security vaults, and placed a small grubby bag inside Vault 713. Inside the bag was a simple pebble like one might find on the sea shore.

The second patronus was Mycroft.

John could barely hear him speaking.

SHSHSH

"I didn't know where to go! But this," Irene Adler held up what looked like a silver cigarette lighter, "this brought me here."

Molly stared into her mug of tea that was rapidly going cold. She couldn't quite bring herself to take a sip. Hermione had said she was on her way. But there were bigger things happening. John had filled Mary in, but couldn't really explain where he was, or what he and Sherlock were doing. Mary had given them information second hand, but it really didn't help.

"I find it interesting, that on the day you decide to return from the dead," Mary said, "so does Moriarty."

"That isn't yours," Molly shook her head, pointing at the deluminator. "That cannot be yours."

Irene's fingers closed around it. "Oh but it is. I was given it as a gift."

Molly felt a lump rise in her throat. "No, he wouldn't."

Mrs. Hudson took a long sip of her tea. "Men do funny things dear," she tapped one of the ones on the floor with her foot. "Especially those who are rather…passionate. And I've always found red heads to be so."

And then Irene Adler changed the subject, her thin lips pressed together in a smirk, a smirk that Molly wanted to slap away. But Molly let her change the subject, because answers to that question could wait.

"I didn't do what I did for Moriarty," Irene protested. "I didn't do it to endanger the wizarding community. I did it to protect myself. If Sherlock Holmes-"

"Why come here?" Molly sighed. She was tired. Tired of dealing with messes that other people made. She felt the hatred she had felt towards Irene Adler at school boiling up inside her. Always picture perfect. Always the one the boys chased.

"I'll show you, but you have to remember who's side I'm on. Who did I fight alongside during the war? None of my clients have ever been Death Eaters, unless it has been to gain information for Mycroft Holmes. To pay back some debt I incurred when Moriarty was just scratching the surface of your tidy little society."

"And that's where things get odd, don't they Irene?" Molly put her mug down before she dropped it. "Because that's when you died."

Molly could feel herself being incredibly harsh, as the temperature in the room dropped a degree or two. She hadn't accidentally lowered the temperature since the day in the morgue when Jim had met Sherlock and Sherlock had declared that Jim was gay.

"I sacrificed so much Molly! You can't possibly know what I've been through…these neo-Death Eaters, I'd argue that they're worse, far worse, than the originals. Because at the least the originals had order. Do you know what it's like to sell yourself to them? I'm not a submissive person Molly, but I became a cheap submissive whore because that's what Mycroft Holmes needed-"

"We've all made sacrifices you-"

Molly stopped herself. A car alarm began to blare somewhere down the street. Mrs. Hudson looked as if she was ready to get the pop-corn out to watch a duel.

With a steady hand, Irene drew her wand and summoned one of the many glass vials that Molly had stood neatly in her kitchen. Then touching the tip of her wand to her forehead she began to extract the memories that she wished to share. When she had finished she shuddered. "I do believe that Mrs. Hudson still has that old pensieve?"

SHSHSH

"Listen, it might not be Moriarty!" John said, trying to catch up with Sherlock, who was striding ahead. "It might be polysemy potion."

"Polyjuice, and that is already one of my theories."

SHSHSH

Imagine the living room of a rather elderly gentleman, who doesn't smoke, but enjoys the occasional tipple of fire-whiskey, and who owns a cat that sheds black and white fur on any clean surface. Except Neville Longbottom wasn't an elderly gentleman, but sometimes he felt like it. And this wasn't his living room, because he didn't have one, but his office.

His body was battleworn. On cold nights his bones ached. On some nights he had nightmares and woke up twisting and turning and screaming. Molly didn't. She was so balanced, always so balanced.

He shut his eyes, rubbing his fists into them.

"Don't you have to go join all of them?" Teddy demanded, slouching further into one of the huge armchairs. He wanted to go to bed or curl up and die. Whichever came first.

Neville sighed and abandoned his uncomfortable marking chair, moving to the sofa that took up most of the room. His desk was piled high with papers he had to mark. He hated marking, it felt so unfair knowing a child could do much better, should he or she not have panicked under exam conditions.

_"__You look sad when you think he can't see you Neville." _

_After the war. Well not just after, everything's after the war now. That's all he can see time as; before and after. It's seven years later and there's an appeal tomorrow. Neville's attended every single one. Only Harry's done the same. Neville's come to realise that being an auror isn't for him. He's thinking of applying for a position at Hogwarts. He's been dabbling in herbology for some time, and he's been doing a few experiments in his spare time. Except he can't afford a lab, and he's damned if he's asking Snape. _

_A Muggle one has far more advanced technology anyway. But Harry freaking Potter had arrived and told him the trial had moved and to be ready to apparate in ten minutes. _

_He doesn't like anyone seeing him look sad, because that means something's wrong. They can't know. They're all dealing with so much anyway. Especially Harry, and so he smiles and nods and begins to rapidly pack up. _

_"__Neville, are you ok? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."_

"There's no point," Neville answered. "Too many cooks spoil the broth."

_"__You can see me Molly." _

Neville had a photograph of them together on his desk. He had quite a few photographs around his office, to try and make it as welcoming as possible. He also kept an assortment of coffee, tea, and squashes. He dreaded the thought that someone's boggart might be him.

"You're just going to sit about whilst your friends are out there risking their lives?" demanded Teddy.

_"__I don't count." _

"Teddy sometimes you have to just have to wait. Because realistically there is no point in us all rushing off and getting in the way. That's something even Harry had to learn."

_"__Neville come on!" _

Teddy shrugged. Neville tried to engage him in conversation, then in a game of chess, and offered him various boiled sweets and words of advice. Finally he left him to sulk and go off to bed, whilst he himself began to read the latest instalment of _Martin the Muggle's Adventures in London. _

They were great, especially now the writers actually had a slightly better grasp on the concept of Muggles and Muggle life. Except they still really didn't, just as most wizards didn't. Neville kept having to remind himself that he was part of a group of exceptional people.

Especially Molly…especially…

He must have dozed off, because he woke with a start as he began to fall from the astronomy tower having had a rather vivid argument with a dragon that had Draco Malfoy's hair. Except it wasn't the fall that woke him, rather it was the loud crack, and then as he groggily stirred, the little hand of a Dory the house elf shaking him roughly.

"Professor Longbottom! Professor Longbottom must wake up!" she cried. "Come quickly. It's Master Lupin! Oh he's making a mess Sir!"

Neville picked up the short story magazine. "What is it? Where is he?"

"Oh Professor Snape will be angry Sir, if Professor Longbottom doesn't come quickly!"

_But Snape isn't here…and…_

"Fuck."

You can do a lot of damage in a potions' lab, if you're left unattended.


End file.
